


Drawing Out Each Other

by RoseByAnyOtherName17



Series: 30 Day Writing Challenge (Derek/Stiles) [11]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Sketching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 22:59:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7733104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseByAnyOtherName17/pseuds/RoseByAnyOtherName17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eventually, Stiles stopped questioning why Derek liked drawing so much (but not before asking Cora and Peter.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drawing Out Each Other

**Author's Note:**

> A little different than the prompt, but still related.

The first time Stiles caught Derek with a pencil and sketchpad, he was sitting in the middle of the high school’s courtyard against a tree that Stiles liked to study under. Derek was chewing his bottom lip in concentration, eyes occasionally flicking up at whatever he was drawing. When Stiles stopped next to him, he only moved to cover the drawing with his hand and look up. “What?” he snapped.

“You know high school is really only meant for students,” Stiles said conversationally.

“I’m waiting for Boyd and Isaac,” Derek muttered, looking back at the pad braced against his drawn-up legs. “We’ve got training out in the woods.”

“And you’re not waiting there because…?”

“Because I saw something interesting last time I was here with Erica, and I wanted to get a better look.” Derek was glaring at him now. “What do you want, Stiles?”

“I wanted to see why the twenty-three year old resident werewolf was hanging out at Beacon Hills High.” Stiles stepped away. “Considering you’re only really here when there’s a life or death situation, I wanted to make sure none of my friends was going to have their head ripped off.” He sighed. “See you next time I inevitably have to save your ass, or the other way around. Try not to get shot up again.”

As he turned to go to his Jeep, he thought he saw what Derek had been sketching: a tiny thicket of flowers huddled just beyond the shadow of the tree. 

 

The next time Derek was drawing, Stiles was almost unaware of it happening, mostly because he was being held down by Scott and Isaac and screaming. He’d been hit by a bullet meant for one of the wolves, and apparently some strains of wolfsbane did affect humans, albeit in a different way. He’d been shot in his left arm, just above his elbow, and the way the blood was spreading was not right.

“Keep him still,” he heard Derek growl. Isaac tightened his grip on Stiles’ legs and Scott got up onto the vet’s table and straddled Stiles stomach, forcing him to lie still. Stiles’ vision was blurry with pain and tears, but he was pretty sure that Erica was the one cupping his head in her hands and whispering in his ear. The glimpse of blond hair was about all he could really make out.

“Derek, I need to get the bullet out of his arm,” Deaton said urgently.

“I’m almost finished!” Derek said angrily. A moment later, “Okay, okay, get it out of him.” Something new was working its way under Stiles’ skin and he thrashed hard against the arms holding him, dislodging Scott entirely. Derek shoved a piece of paper at Scott. “Go look this up and see what it means. Now!” He took Scott’s place, grabbing Stiles’ right wrist and holding it above his head. “Deaton, hurry.”

Stiles passed out a few seconds later.

 

The third time it happened, Stiles was beginning to question Derek’s sanity. “You have a phone with a camera,” he sighed. “Why can’t you just use that?”

“Because the design is different,” Derek explained almost patiently. He was sitting in Stiles’ room. He’d already sketched out the triskele that was between his own shoulder blades, but he was adding something else to it. “I told you, Cora wanted to combine her pack’s symbol and ours. I get that you think graphic design is really the only way to go about this, but I’d prefer to do it myself.”

“Okay, but why are you doing it here?” Stiles grumbled, flopping down onto the bed next to Derek and pulling a pillow over his face so his next words were muffled. “You have a loft, last I checked.”

“You have markers,” Derek replied. “Speaking of, I need a black one.”

“Get it yourself.”

A moment later Stiles found himself flat on the floor on his stomach. “You’re an asshole,” he groaned, dragging himself to his feet so he could open his desk drawer. He threw the marker at Derek’s head, but of course he caught it without even looking up from his drawing. Stiles decided once again that werewolf reflexes sucked.

“I made you breakfast,” Derek answered mildly. “Assholes don’t do that.”

“You made breakfast because Dad caught you crashed out on our couch and you wanted to suck up to him,” Stiles reminded him. “Which you still haven’t given me an explanation or apology for. Dad still doesn’t know about werewolves and you’re going to get me into a lot of trouble one of these days.”

“I told you, the loft’s under renovation,” Derek said, carefully tracing his design with the marker. “It’s currently a ‘hazardous living area’ and I’m not allowed to be there for another week at least.”

“I’m sorry, I thought you liked living in desolate places that smell like mold.” When all he got in response was a roll of Derek’s eyes, he went on. “So why didn’t you stay with Peter? Or wherever Cora’s staying?”

“Cora’s staying with Lydia,” Derek informed him, finally glancing sideways at Stiles, who settled next to Derek on the bed again. “And really? We’ve known each other for a long time, Stiles. Why the hell would I stay anywhere with Peter?”

“So I’m your last resort?” Stiles inquired, raising an eyebrow. He wasn’t sure if he should be offended or relieved.

“No, the old house was my last resort,” Derek said. 

Well. 

 

The fourth time, Stiles stopped questioning why Derek neglected his phone’s camera. He was beginning to suspect that Derek genuinely enjoyed drawing and wasn’t interested enough to ask why (at least not enough to ask Derek himself why. He’d asked Cora and Peter already, but it was a habit he’d developed after the fire apparently.) 

No, he chose instead to sit in the sand just behind Derek’s shoulder and rest his chin there, watching the pencil move across the page. Derek didn’t even flinch, just kept sketching. It was of Lydia, her head tilted back to the sun, one leg crossed over the other just in front of the water that kept crashing up to touch her toes. He’d somehow captured the shine of her hair in shades of gray, the way it tumbled freely down her back. Once upon a time, she would be all Stiles could look at. Now he only wanted to watch Derek’s hand, examine the lead smeared across his pinkie where it kept touching the paper accidentally.

“How do you do it?” he asked quietly, and Derek’s hand paused where he had been trying to get the gentle slope of Lydia’s shoulders just right. He tilted his head and rested his temple against Stiles’, relaxing so that his back pressed against the bare skin of Stiles’ chest. If he noticed the sudden skip of Stiles’ heartbeat, he didn’t say anything about it. 

“Not easily,” Derek admitted, curving a hand over Stiles’ knee where his leg was stretched out next to him. His thumb moved in small circles as he spoke, still looking at Lydia. “I have to block out everything else so I can focus. All the smells, the sounds. The texture of the sand.”

Stiles made to move back. “I’m probably not helping much then.”

Derek tightened his fingers just enough to make him stop. “No. You’re…different. It’s easier to focus around you.”

“Probably because I’m the hardest thing to block out,” Stiles joked. “I’m the perfect werewolf training: if you can focus despite the babbling human, you’ll live. If you can’t, then you’re not ready to be a supernatural creature.”

But Derek was shaking his head. “That’s not it.” He didn’t say anything else, but when Stiles lifted a hand and curled it lightly over his hip, he sighed contentedly and picked the sketchpad and pencil back up.

 

After that, it wasn’t uncommon for Derek to seek Stiles out and drag him along when he had an idea for a drawing. Sometimes Stiles just needed to be in the general vicinity, but more often than not, Derek would make sure they were touching somehow: feet in Stiles’ lap, lying back into Stiles with his arms wrapped around Derek’s waist, his head leaning against Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles found that it was easiest to be still when Derek was like this, easiest to just sit and watch or close his eyes and breathe. He didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with words, though sometimes Derek asked him to, gently coaxing stories out of Stiles about Scott or his mother. 

At the end of one of these sessions, late in the night, Derek softly shook Stiles awake to show him one of his drawings, done mostly by the light of the moon streaming through the open window. Stiles blinked the blurriness from his eyes slowly, shifting a little so he could pull the drawing closer. His breath hitched when he saw that Derek had somehow managed to draw his mother, the way she looked before she got sick. It wasn’t like any of the pictures Stiles had of her.

“How did you do this?” he gasped.

“You look like her in the photos,” Derek said quietly, nose pressed into Stiles’ cheek. “Do…is it…?”

Stiles gently put the drawing aside and pushed Derek down so that he could pull the blankets over them and kiss him in the dark.

And when Derek woke up the next morning, it was to Stiles bringing him pancakes and the sight of the drawing in a frame next to the laptop on the desk.


End file.
